The next morning, Emma had just finished checking to be sure everything was ready for the arrival of the late morning train when the double doors to the dining room opened and Aidan ushered Max and Bert to the table reserved for them. Although normally the dining room was only open for lunch and supper, with breakfast served at the more informal counter in the lobby, she understood Aidan saw this as a special circumstance.
He nodded to her, then set the cups for beverage service to the two men. It was a Harvey tradition that when a patron arrived, the waitress took the order for a beverage and then, depending on that order, placed the cup upright, turned down, tilted or off its saucer completely to indicate to the girl charged with serving beverages if the guest wanted coffee, tea, or milk.
Aidan shot Emma an apologetic smile as he left the dining room, closing the doors behind him. He was acknowledging this was unusual and added to her workload, but his look said this was something special. She checked the bow in her hair and her apron for perfection, loaded a tray with a silver coffee pitcher and a smaller pitcher of cream, and approached the table.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said. They looked up from the menus Aidan had left them. Bert mumbled a greeting and returned to studying the menu. He looked tired and out of sorts, his suit rumpled and his bow tie askew. Emma was pretty sure he’d had no sleep. Max smiled at her and looked as if he’d slept well and hadn’t a care in the world.
She poured coffee—a full cup for Bert and precisely three-quarters full for the captain, leaving room for cream.
“Ah, Bertie, Miss Emma is not just a pretty face but a mind reader as well,” he said as he added a generous splash of cream to his cup.
Emma laughed. “You gave me the orders last night,” she reminded him.
“That I did, and as you can see, Bert’s mood matches his choice.” He picked up his menu and glanced at it. “What do you recommend?” Setting the menu aside, he picked up his coffee cup and took a swallow.
“The orange pancakes are a specialty,” she replied, her focus on his hand—the tanned skin and long fingers. She swallowed and forced herself to turn to the show’s manager, who was already refilling his cup from the server she’d set between them on the table.
“Eggs over easy,” Bert said, “bacon—burnt to a crisp—biscuits…do you have honey?”
“We do indeed,” she said. Having received Bert’s order, she had no choice but to turn back to Max. “And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have the same plus an order of those pancakes you mentioned.” He glanced around at the empty tables. “Kind of slow this morning,” he noted.
Before Emma could explain, Bert chimed in. “The dining room doesn’t open for breakfast, but I asked Mr. Campbell if we could have somewhere more private than the counter. We’ve got stuff we need to talk about, Max.”
Maxwell looked up at Emma. “We’re making extra work for you?”
“Not at all,” she assured him. She picked up the coffeepot and cream pitcher. “I’ll just refill these and place your orders,” she said.
In all her years working for the Harvey Company, she could not think of a single time when a customer had given the slightest consideration to how his actions or demands might inconvenience the staff. Of course, it was the Harvey way to accommodate even the most bizarre requests if possible, and providing a private venue for a business meeting was hardly out of the ordinary. Still, he had noticed. She liked that.
She gave the kitchen staff the order and refilled the creamer. Stepping around the corner to the counter, she held the coffeepot under the spigot of the larger urn. Through the glass panes of the closed dining room doors, she could see the two men, their heads bent close as they talked. She thought about the way Max had looked up at her, his smile, and how those deep-set gray eyes—eyes the color of storm clouds coming over the mountains—had captured her gaze in return. She found it almost impossible to look away, to get on about her business, to—
“Ouch!” She cried out as the hot coffee overflowed and splashed onto her hand. She dropped the coffeepot and watched as the hot brown liquid found a path across the tile floor.
Sarah, who was working the counter alone now that Trula had been dismissed, rushed to her aid. “Are you hurt, Miss Elliott?”
“I’ll be fine. Get a towel so I can clean up this mess, and then see to your customers.” She knew she sounded brusque and regretted it. “Thank you, Sarah,” she said more gently when the girl returned with two freshly laundered towels. She handed one to Emma and used the other to wipe the floor.
“Did you hear about Trula?” Sarah asked.
“What about her?”
“She’s working for Miss Reba as her personal assistant,” Sarah whispered.
“How on earth did that happen?” Emma tried not to encourage gossip among her staff, but if this meant Trula would be staying in the hotel—as a guest—that could be a problem.
“Trula was in the lobby when Miss Reba arrived last night,” Sarah replied. “Miss Reba was telling Mr. Campbell how her ‘girl’ had left the show at their last performance and she was in need of a replacement. You know Trula—she saw opportunity knocking and threw open the door. Just stepped up and introduced herself and said she’d like the job.”
“That I did, and Miss Reba has requested her breakfast served in her room—suite.” Trula stood behind them, a piece of paper in her hand. “She’ll have tea with lemon, two soft-boiled eggs, a slice of unbuttered toast, and a dish of fresh berries with cream.” She handed the list to Emma and turned to go.
“Very well,” Emma replied. “But you can wait and deliver the order yourself, Trula. This won’t take long.”
Trula smiled triumphantly. “Miss Reba expects her meal to be delivered by staff. She says I am no longer a waitress. She says I have come up in the world and should not lower myself to menial tasks.” And with that, she turned and left, taking the lobby staircase rather than the stairs in the kitchen used by staff.
Before changing her coffee-stained apron for a fresh one, Emma handed the order to George Keller, the hotel chef, who had clearly overheard the encounter.
“She’s gotten a bit uppity overnight,” he muttered as he added a plate of pancakes to the large silver tray holding the order for Max and Bert.
“I’ll ask Tommy to deliver the order,” Emma said as, with great care, she filled a fresh pot with coffee and added that and the creamer to the heavy tray.
Expertly, she lifted it, balancing it on the flat of one palm and returning to the dining room.
Max was on his feet the minute she came through the swinging doors that connected the dining room to the kitchen. “Let me help with that,” he said, relieving her of the tray before she could object. And then he started doling out the dishes—plates filled with eggs and bacon and piping hot biscuits.
“Really, Captain Winslow,” Emma protested, “you must allow us to do our jobs. Mr. Harvey—”
“—is not here,” he noted again as he handed her the empty tray, his fingers brushing hers in the transfer.
“Still.” She set the tray aside and refilled their coffee cups, leaving the coffee server and the cream. “Will there be anything more?” she asked.
Bert had already devoured one egg and half a biscuit. His mouth was full as he glanced up at her and gave her a genuine smile. “Good grub,” he managed to say as he reached for his coffee. “Best coffee I ever had.”
Max laughed. “Miss Elliott, I would say you have one very satisfied customer.”
“I’ll leave you to enjoy your meals and conduct your business,” she said, and once she’d removed the tray, she took up her position just outside the kitchen door, across the large room from the two men but available should they need anything.
She observed them as they ate and talked. The topic seemed quite serious. Bert often gestured dramatically with both hands, once nearly toppling the small vase of wildflowers that was a feature on every table. He appeared to be quite upset while Max remained calm, leaning back after finishing his meal and stretching out his long legs as he cradled his coffee cup in both hands and listened intently to what his table partner was saying.
Several times he looked past Bert, glancing at Emma. The first couple of times he simply smiled, but as the discussion went on and she remained at her post, his expression changed to a frown. Finally he stood, said something to Bert, and started toward her. He was smiling again, but there was a question behind that smile.
“There’s no need for you to stand guard, Emmie.”
She bristled. “I am not standing guard, Captain. I am simply attending to my duties. As long as you and Mr. Gordon are guests in this dining room, I have a responsibility to—”
“Okay. That’s ridiculous, but if that’s the way things are done around here—”
“It is the Harvey way. Was there something more you or Mr. Gordon needed, or may I clear your dishes and give you more room for conducting your business?”
“And then you’ll leave? Get on with your day?”
“If that’s what will make you most comfortable,” she replied.
He released a sigh of pure frustration. “You know, Emmie, one of the things I think might be most wrong with today’s world is too many rules about how things get done.”
“And yet my job requires me to follow a certain protocol.”
He studied her for a moment, then grinned, stepped aside, and with a sweeping bow invited her to step forward. “Follow your protocol then, Emmie. I’m not here to cause trouble.”
* * *
Max returned to his place at the table and watched as Emma cleared their dishes, refilled their coffee cups, then carried the heavy tray back to the kitchen as if it weighed no more than a single plate. What was it about this woman that had drawn him to her from the moment he’d first walked into that dining room? She was hardly the first female to catch his eye, but Emma Elliott had not only caught his eye. Somehow, she had captured his curiosity.
There was something about her—an aura of self-confidence and dignity. And while she was slim and petite in stature, he had the feeling she could hold her own in any situation that required a quick mind. Her hair was light brown, with highlights that caught the sun streaming through the dining room windows. And her eyes—those wide hazel eyes—sparkled with intelligence. Yes, Emma Elliott was a woman worth getting to know.
Bert was going on about the usual problems central to keeping a show like theirs afloat—problems that all came down to money.
“And then there’s Reba,” Bert was saying.
“What about her?”
“She’s hired a new ‘assistant’ and expects us to pay for the girl.”
“We haven’t been here half a day, and Reba’s been asleep for most of that,” Max said. “How on earth…?”
Bert shrugged. “Some girl in the lobby last night, one of the waitresses here they’d let go. Apparently, Reba was sweet-talking the hotel manager about needing someone and this girl—”
“A girl who’d been let go from her duties here at the hotel?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“That could be trouble if she’s got an ax to grind, and I assume she does. And you know Reba.”
“Not as well as you do,” Bert said, a reminder that there had been a time when Max and Reba were more than just costars.
“That’s the past,” Max grumbled.
“For you maybe. Not for her.”
And that was at the root of a lot of the trouble the show had gone through lately. Reba’s emotions ran the gamut from teary pleadings for them to reunite to threats to leave the show, something she knew they couldn’t afford. Reba was almost as popular as Max was, in some cases more so, especially with the men who bought tickets. And she brought a lot to the show—sharpshooting skills as good as any man’s, not to mention the ability to create half a dozen believable characters for the various vignettes that made up the program.
“Just be nice to her,” Bert was saying, an old refrain he delivered at least once a day.
“I am nice. Trouble is she wants more than nice.”
Bert sighed and stared out the window at the passing traffic—wagons, men on horseback, women hurrying to the shops. “Cheer up. We’re here for the next several weeks. Maybe some good-lookin’ cowboy will come along and sweep her off her feet.”
He stood, and the minute he did, Emma appeared.
Max watched her approach the table, her smile at the ready.
“Add our meals to my room bill, sweetheart,” Bert said, then blushed as he hurried to add, “Sorry, miss. Old habits.” He retrieved his bowler and opened the door leading to the lobby. “Max, I’ll see you later over at the showgrounds?”
“Yeah.” Max leaned back and picked up his coffee cup as Emma walked back to her post. “Could I ask you something?”
She stopped walking but hesitated before turning around. “All right,” she said, coming back to the table.
“Sit,” he invited, indicating the chair Bert had vacated.
“I…”
“Here’s the thing, Emmie. The show—meaning my business and livelihood and that of a few dozen other folks—is kind of at a crossroads. Some of the performers think I’ve been too stubborn about how I present things. The show lacks glamour and romance according to them.”
“I can’t see how I—”
“I value the opinions of everyday folks—people who might buy a ticket. How long have you lived in Juniper?”
“I started working here four years ago.”
“And before that?”
“I’ve been with the Harvey Company for a little over eight years now, working first in Kansas City and then here.”
“And did you grow up in these parts?”
She remained standing, her hands resting on the back of the chair. Her expression told him his question might be more complicated than he might think. “No, I grew up in Nebraska.”
“Okay, but you’ve lived out here for nearly a decade, long enough to have maybe seen what this part of the country used to be. So tell me what you think folks around these parts expect from a show like ours.”
“Really, Captain—”
He quirked an eyebrow, and she blushed before correcting herself.
“Really, Maxwell, I do not see how I might possibly—”
“You see, my idea is to remind people of what the West once was. Open range, buffalo roaming the plains, a frontier—unknown, undiscovered, with endless possibilities for adventure and people who might not all look the same but who shared the same hopes and dreams.”
She edged onto the chair. “I think that sounds wonderful,” she said. “Who wouldn’t love such a presentation?”
“According to Bert and others, people prefer fantasy to reality. The other shows give them that—train robberies and attacks by native peoples on settlers and such.”
“I can’t think how I might be of any help to you.”
“Come out to the showgrounds. Let me show you around, maybe watch a rehearsal, and give me your honest opinion.”
She stood, smoothing creases from her apron. “I have responsibilities. I can’t just take off.”
“We often rehearse at night. You could come by after the dining room closes.”
“Speaking of the dining room,” she said, “we are due to open soon, and there’s a good deal of preparatory work to be done.” She retrieved a tray from a nearby station and began loading it with the coffee service on his table.
“That’s not an answer, Emmie.” Max added his cup and saucer to the tray and stood.
“I…I’ll think about it,” she finally said.
“Well, that’s good enough—for now.” He grinned.
She frowned. “Please understand that my duties here do not end with the closing of the dining room. I am also responsible for the waitresses. They have a curfew, and something could come up that requires my attention.”
Max studied her for a moment. She was still young and yet carried her responsibilities like a far more mature woman. He respected that. At the same time, he couldn’t help wondering if the burden of her job left any time for her to enjoy life. As someone who had spent a good part of his youth and early adulthood dealing with circumstances that left little time for pleasure, he was determined to bring pleasure to others and to find what enjoyment he could in his work and life. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he felt he and this woman had a lot in common. She was obviously intelligent, someone who might understand what he was trying to do. And based on the brief conversations they’d had, she was also a straight shooter. Emma Elliott would give him her honest opinion.
“Tell you what, Emmie. I understand Sunday is a day off for you and your girls. How about after church we take a ride out to where we’re setting up the show, and I’ll give you a tour.”
“I suppose that would be all right,” she replied after chewing her lower lip and glancing around as if expecting someone to object. Then she straightened. “At the moment, however…”
Max grabbed his hat. “I’m going,” he said, heading for the door just as half a dozen identically dressed Harvey Girls entered the dining room from the kitchen. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw him, glancing from him to their supervisor and back again. “Ladies,” he said with a grin. As he shut the door, he heard Emma clap her hands three times and instruct the girls to get to work.
Emma Elliott took her work seriously. Max respected that. Traveling around the country the way he did, it wasn’t often he had the opportunity to get to know those he met on more than a surface level. Staying here in Juniper for the next several weeks would mean he’d have time to make deeper connections than usual. And the idea of deepening his friendship with Emma pleased—and surprised—him.
* * *
For the remainder of the day, the dining room and counter kept Emma shuttling between the two, making sure her waitresses kept pace. Word had spread of the arrival of the show people, and the locals were curious. The female guests were disappointed when they learned the handsome Captain Winslow had already come and gone for the day. The railroad workers and cowhands who frequented the lunch counter groaned when told the vivacious Rebel Reba rarely made any public appearance before midafternoon.
Finally, after the last of the travelers boarded their trains and the hotel guests left for the shops or an excursion through the countryside, Emma moved through the dining room, kitchen, and lunch counter, congratulating everyone on a job well done. Once the waitresses had hurried upstairs to change out of their uniforms and into more relaxed clothing for the evening, Emma headed to her office where a mountain of paperwork awaited her. She sighed and pulled the first file from the stack. It was the schedule of train arrivals and departures, and it brought back memories of a time when she had viewed such a schedule as thrilling and filled with possibilities.
When she first joined the Harvey Company, it had been the idea of travel that had driven her to strike out on her own. She’d dreamed of seeing the West, especially the national park called Yellowstone. She’d read articles and seen grainy photographs of the wonders of the park, and one day she aimed to see it all for herself. But while the promise of travel was real, the opportunities were not, especially once she had accepted the position as house manager for the Harvey Girls in Juniper. For the last three years, work had consumed her.
Someday, she thought as she tackled the work schedule for her staff.
“Miss Elliott? Do you have a moment?” Aidan stuck his head around the door. His formality clearly indicated this was a business matter.
“Of course. Come in.”
He pushed the door open and waited while Miss Reba swept past him and into Emma’s cramped and cluttered office. She glanced around and finally settled her gaze on the lone extra chair, which was stacked with freshly laundered, starched, and folded linens. She arched a penciled eyebrow at Emma.
“Let me move these,” Aidan said as he scooped up the pile and looked around for some place to set them.
“Here,” Emma said, taking them from him and setting them on a counter just outside her office. As she closed the door, Aidan swiped at the seat of the chair with a handkerchief and invited the actress to sit before taking a position standing next to her. Emma returned to her place behind the desk. “How can I be of service?” she asked, directing the question to the woman seated before her.
“I have come to clear the air, Miss Elliott,” she announced. “And to make sure you understand that Trula Goodwin no longer works for you, no longer takes direction from you. She works for me now, and as my personal assistant, she also speaks for me. Do you understand?”
Aidan twitched nervously, his eyes wide with questions Emma wasn’t about to answer, even if she knew what those questions were. Instead, she folded her hands on top of her desk and cleared her throat. “Is there something specific that has upset you?” she asked, thinking at the same moment that as she had predicted, Trula was already causing problems.
Reba released a huff of exasperation. “It is my understanding that when she came to the kitchen this morning—on my direction—she was treated rudely, specifically by you.”
Emma leaned forward and locked eyes with the actress. “You are correct in pointing out the fact that Miss Goodwin has changed employment—and employers. And because all of that has come about literally overnight as it were, it’s understandable that she may be a bit confused when it comes to protocol—yours and that of the Harvey Company.”
Reba glanced up at Aidan, who seemed suddenly fascinated by the tips of his shoes and did not meet her gaze.
“Furthermore,” Emma continued, “it is true that Miss Goodwin and I came to a parting of ways that was less than amicable. In time, she will see that it was for the best, but until such time arrives, may I suggest that requests for any of our hotel services go through Mr. Campbell, and he can relay them to the appropriate manager.” She stood. “Following that protocol should alleviate any confusion Miss Goodwin may have regarding her duties.” She smiled. “Is there anything else I can do to make sure your stay with us is as comfortable and enjoyable as possible?”
“You are dismissing me? Me?” Reba sputtered as she rose to her feet and glared at Emma. “Do you have the slightest idea who I am, Miss Elliott?”
“Yes, I do. You are a guest at a Harvey House and as such entitled to the very best service we can offer, the same excellent service anyone who stays or dines with us receives.”
Aidan cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Well now, Miss Reba, it seems that we have found the perfect solution.”
“I hardly see how—”
“The proposal Miss Elliott has made gives me the great privilege of being at your disposal day and night. I am at your service.” He gave her a half bow.
Reba turned her back to Emma and placed her hand on Aidan’s cheek. “Day or night, Mr. Campbell? That may be an offer I will find difficult to refuse.”
Aidan blushed until his face turned nearly as ruddy as the dark red fingerless gloves Miss Reba wore. When he saw Emma watching this little scene, he gathered himself and glared at her. “Thank you, Miss Elliott. I’m sure you have work you need to do,” he added.
For a moment, Emma wondered if she was going to have to remind him they were standing in her office. She moved around the desk. “Miss Reba, we are honored to have you here,” she said. “And I assure you everyone on the staff is dedicated to making sure your stay with us is memorable.”
Clearly, the actress responded well to compliments. “Thank you, my dear. Perhaps Miss Goodwin overreacted. The young are prone to that, don’t you agree? They can be quite dramatic.” She clasped Emma’s hand between hers. “I’m sure you and I will be great friends before this is all over.”
Emma had her doubts, but she held her smile. “I hope so. And now if you both will excuse me…”
Aidan held the door for Miss Reba, and after she had gone on her way, he glanced back at Emma. “Thank you,” he said softly before shutting the door with a click.
Emma returned to her desk and sat staring at the new schedule for a long moment. The cast of the Wild West show had not been in town twenty-four hours yet and already she had the feeling it was going to be a challenging—and exhausting—stay. Knowing that, she got to work. The more paperwork she could manage to complete before the next crisis arose the better.